


pick my petals off and make my heart explode

by safeandsound13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Modern Setting, UST, alternative universe, bellarke AU, i lost my sibling at ikea pls help me im stupid, idk even know what these are for does anyone actually search tags???, lets be real its just cheesy stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 07:37:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4910872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His tiny baby sister—who’s fingers and toes he counted over and over when he held her, even tinier and pink and newborn and not out to ruin his life—could literally be anywhere in this goddamn store and he’s never ever going to find her. / Or, Bellamy loses Octavia at IKEA and Clarke is his Knight In Ugly Uniform.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pick my petals off and make my heart explode

**Author's Note:**

> okay so this is my first time writing for the 100……… how exciting! ! ! i know this prompt has probably been done like ten-thousand times because next to thea/oliver, bellamy/octavia is the best sibling relationship out there at the moment but this really fuelled my inspiration also since bellarke owns my ass and everything. i hope someone reads this and likes it, otherwise, i’m writing this to myself and that would be awkward.
> 
> im super anal (HAHAHA im five) about characterization so let me know what you think
> 
> prompt: I lost my little sibling in IKEA and I need your help finding them 
> 
> song in the title is froot by marina and the diamonds and the fragment is taken from a poem by thoughtsonfire

.

" _sometimes you meet someone_

_and even though you never liked brown eyes before,_

_their eyes are your now favourite colour."_

.

He's busy deciding between the importance of a ÖDMJUK opposed to a FLÄRDFULL (seriously, what self-dignified respected person buys this stuff???)—which not-so-surprisingly makes him question what IKEA's angle is here and when he ever became a person who shops at IKEA to question why they name their products after regions in hell—trying to nudge Octavia to have a good laugh about a lamp called MILF, when he realizes he's elbowing air.

He stuffs the FLÄRDFULL candle in his hand back on the shelf, while looking around frantically for his little sister but it's pretty much a lost cause. The store is huge and conveniently constructed like a maze, a eleven year old's dream playground.

He doesn't like to admit it, and won't ever aloud, but he needs help. Since he has too much dignity to actually  _ask_ , he first wanders around the dining, bathroom and kitchen departments for fifteen minutes. After collecting another blueprint map of the building from a display (after crumbling the first one in his fist out of frustration), he inwardly starts having a full-blown panic attack, his adrenaline level spiking to inhuman amounts.

His  _tiny_  baby sister—who's fingers and toes he counted over and over when he held her, even tinier and pink and newborn and not out to ruin his life—could literally be anywhere in this goddamn store and he's never ever going to find her.

Against every instinct in his body, he makes it over to a desk with a huge, yellow question-mark above it. He clears his throat to catch the attention of the IKEA employee, but to no avail.

He impatiently taps his fingers on the help desk, keeping an eye for Octavia while simultaneously staring down a scrawny looking idiot with a nametag reading JASPER that insists on finishing his textmessage first. You know, he'd prefer to find his little sister before she gets swallowed by a mountain of Swedish cushions, or lands on one of their magic aisles leading to an alternative universe, but that's just him.

"I can't find my sister," he cuts in, finally, more than a little pissed. With more than a little, he means a lot, like  _a lot_  a lot.

"I just do IT," he starts of confidently but his voice trails off as Bellamy not-so-friendly glare turns unfriendlier by the second. He swallows tight, at least having the dignity to look intimidated as he points a thumb over his shoulders, "For any other, other questions I refer you to the cust-customer's helpdesk on the basement level, it's.. it's where storage is."

He clenches his jaw, managing to grumble out a somewhat polite 'thank you', although his face gives away the fact it physically pains him to do so.

He manages to find his way downstairs and approaches a tan woman with a brown ponytail, the scowl on her face strongly suggesting a ' _don't ask me where the hell anything is, I'll fuck you up'_  attitude. "Excuse me, I can't find my sister—"

"I do automated transport," she says, not even bothering to look up from her clipboard as she scribbles down some notes. "I don't do people."

He's clenching his jaw so hard by now, that he's sure it's going to snap any second when a wavy blonde approaches them, polite smile on her face. His eyes land on her chest, mainly her name-tag, although he can't promise anything—he hates to pull the white straight frat fuckboy-card but he's a healthy twenty-three year old guy.

It reads CLARKE with  _first-aid_  in small italics beneath it, so at least if Octavia broke her neck falling down one of their weirdly named bunk-beds, she'll know how to stick a band-aid on it. She's smiling, very knowingly, when he looks back up, a beauty-mark right above her lip. She's very pretty, in that  _I just rolled out of bed five minutes ago and am functioning on two cups of coffee_  way, but he doesn't have time to worry about aesthetics.

"I don't care what you do or don't do, I just want to find my sister," he snaps, eyes back on the brunette, fists balled against his side and not really caring he's surrounded by hot IKEA employees and about to lose his shit right in front of them.

_RAVEN_ speaks up, finally looking up from her clipboard, as she locks eyes with the blonde amongst them, " _Clarke_  does people.  _Clarke_  usually deals with the angry customers for us."

They exchange a smirk, like it's a thing. Clarke Dealing With Angry Customers. Well, it's about to be a thing if he doesn't find his sister. Along with some a) yelling and b) lots of aggressive hand motions.

She shrugs, still beaming that small sneaky smile, as she deadpans, "I just have something about me, you know." Her voice is unlike what he expected—it's almost chain-smoker-raspy instead of soft and sweet—but he likes it. Looking at the defiant look on her face, maybe it does fit.

I-hate-people Raven gniffles softly, clipping her pen to her dark-blue IKEA polo and stuffing her notes under her arm, look of amusement on her face, "Yeah, it's called a 'eerily calm voice as you tell them to calm the hell down before you put a PYSSLINGAR up their ass'." She totally seems to forget he's desperate customer asking for help, not even sparing him a look as she disappears between a huge row of boxes.

Clarke bites down a laugh before she turns back to him, clearing her throat, "Sorry about that. Let's find your sister." Her voice is warm and comforting and almost makes him turn down  _overprotective, overbearing, over-everything older brother_  a notch. Almost.

The start climbing the stairs as she starts her line of questioning, "Where did you last see her?"

"Bedrooms."

"What's her name again?" She asks, tone friendly like he's asking her where he can find the bedsheets or the coffee cups.

"Octavia."

She smiles, before biting down on her bottom lip, "That's a pretty name." God, she has really pretty smile... and his priorities/morals/values are so fucked up.

"Thanks," he grumbles, not much for compliments even when they're technically not even directed at him, before involuntarily adding, "I picked it." Well, he  _is_  kind of proud of it.

"What does she look like?"

"About this tall," he holds his hand up to her chest as they reach the ground floor, running a hand through his curls with his free one, "looks eleven," at lack of a better description of a pre-teen girl (since he hasn't made it a common thing to study other eleven year olds besides his sister and all), "Long brown hair, bangs, a nasty habit of leaving her brother in the cold and looking for her like an idiot."

One eyebrow hiked, she asks almost amused, "Does she run away often?"

His snorts half-heartedly, scanning the kitchen displays for his sister's stubborn face, "Last week I told her Cheetos weren't a healthy breakfast and she packed a suitcase, telling me she was going to call child services and live with a family that ' _didn't want to force their values upon her_ ', like me. Apparently."

She laughs again, loud and bold like she has nothing to hide, and he kind of loves hearing it. "Kid's got spunk. I like her." She's by far his favorite IKEA employee.

He appreciates her effort to distract him enough to avoid the impending stress-induced stroke he'll surely have if he doesn't find her in the next ten minutes, but he isn't really up for some light banter. He licks his dry lips, knowing he's coming across totally bat-shit crazy and completely desperate but accepting the situation as it is, "I  _have_  to find her."

Her blue eyes turn soft, a comforting quality in them that he doesn't know how else to describe than ' _nice_ ', putting her hand on his shoulder, "We'll find her, don't worry." Her hand is tiny and soft and warm.

She helps him look for O in every possible bunkbed-fairy lamp-flowery bedspread-weird thematic combination-bedroom displays, ever, but there's no such luck. Not that he's been dealt many lucky cards in his life, poor twenty-three year old history lover taking care of a eleven year old because their mom died and all.

She squints her eyes, pursing her lips, closing a closet door she was previously scanning for little runaway girls, "Eleven, you said?"

"She was born eleven years ago, yes," he confirms, just managing to keep an annoyed scowl off his face out of pure self-control.

She looks in thought, getting on her tiptoes to look on top of a bunk bed, "Is she a girly girl or more like a tomboy? Not that I want to enforce any gender roles on her at such a young age, but it might be—"

"I don't see how any of this is going to help me find my sister," he snaps, brows furrowed together because all he can imagine is Octavia, scared and alone and locked up in a small confinement and thinking that he just left her there like he did before.

If she thinks he's being rude it definitely shows on her face. "Dude," she retorts, crossing her arms and raising her eyebrows, "Calm down." The look in her eyes tells him she's not kidding and not afraid to slap him out of his episode if necessary—dark and dismissive and brave. "Growling at me isn't going to make us find her faster."

He looks at her, searching her face while he realizes she's right. He's just so— _scared_.

"I'm..." he sighs, closing his eyes in frustration and running a hand over his face, "I'm sorry, it's just she is all I have and she, she had a really  _shitty_ childhood and I don't want her to be traumatized because I couldn't manage getting a desk and damn lamp without losing her."

He doesn't know why he's telling her this—he's not usually one to tell other people anything, let alone something this personal (trust issues 4 lyfe; it took him four years before he let Miller babysit Octavia and he's known him his entire life)—but he decides it's the nerves. He still feels embarrassed, neck flushing as he avoids her gaze, looking and hoping desperately to see Octavia's small head stick out above a plant or couch or anything.

(Shitty childhood doesn't really cover it—he was so busy with college and getting to keep his scholarship that he barely saw them, that he didn't even notice his mother completely losing it and locking his six year old baby sister in cupboards and closets. He didn't notice how Octavia was underfed, tired, empty,  _broken_  until school got a hold of him because she was missing class and it was too late—and he still blames himself for that.)

"I get it," she says, and it's not filled with pity or false authenticity and he's thankful for that. There's a pause, a small teasing smile playing on her lips, "This might surprise you but I used to be an eleven year old girl, so I think I might know where she is."

The look of relief is probably enough of an acknowledgement that he heard her because she chuckles, motioning for him to come along as she says, "Follow me." He doesn't really trust himself not to say more stupid shit.

If he was a bad person and not freaking about his sister being trampled by a bedroom display, he'd think she had the best laugh  _and_  a really cute ass—who is he kidding, he's not that good of a person. She's the kind of person who makes those dumb IKEA uniforms look good, filling them up with her curves and accessorizing them with her eyes and smiles, how can he not notice that.

She leads him straight to the children's department, leading him to a bunch of stuffed animals next to an astronaut themed kiddie bedroom. Her face lights up as she points behind a cart filled with life-sized fluffy stuffed purple dogs, "Is that her?"

His heart speeds up with hope as he rushes passed it, finding his little sister tucked away in a corner on a beanbag, covered in a panda ballerinas, space monkeys and car racing horses. Asleep. Of course she would take a nap while he's losing five years of his life over this.

"Octavia," he says, a little stern and a little angry but mostly relieved. Not wanting to startle her, he urges, " _O_."

He was about to take two of those incredibly stupid, ridiculous little pencils that are too tiny for his hands and stab them in his eyes, but here she is, rubbing her eyes and blinking up at him in unadultered indifference.

"Hi Bell," she yawns, stretching her little arms out, "You finally picked out a stupid lamp?"

His glances over at Clarke, who's leaning against a wall with her arms crossed and looking rather amused, "O, why did you go here without telling me?"

She blinks up at him, eyebrows raised in disbelief, like duh, he's  _pretending_  not to know, "I didn't think you would notice. You always go into rants about capitalism and materialism when we go to stores like this." She says capitalism like capey-tall-esm and materialism like math-eery-lipsm, but he has to give her some credit. Wise-ass.

Still, he flushes and pretending he didn't just hear Clarke burst out into laughter as he kneels down so he's on eyelevel with her, hands on shoulders, "Don't ever do that again, okay?" His looks into her eyes to make sure she knows he's serious.

She rolls her eyes, but there's a hint of fondness hiding in her toothy smirk, "Fine, but only if I get to keep all of these." She pulls the stupid stuffed animals tighter to her body, and he knows Miller is never going to let that stupid panda ballerina go if he sees it anywhere in his apartment, but in reality he'd give his sister anything if it made her happy.

"You can keep one."

" _Three_."

"One."

She taps her chin, as if she's in thought, "Uhm, how about… three?"

"Two."

"Three's the final offer. Take it or leave it," Clarke cuts in and Octavia's smile stretches further across her face. "Yeah, listen to IKEA lady, Bell."

"Ah, so you guys are ganging up on me now?" He pulls her against his side so he can ruffle her hair as she laughs, trying to push him off. He doesn't dare to look at Clarke because he might give away that he kind of likes her, which is a kind of weakness he doesn't like to show.

"Great minds think alike," Clarke retorts, teasingly as he finally gets up, pulling Octavia off the beanbag and placing a kiss on her forehead. "I'm Clarke," she tells Octavia, and if she wasn't introducing herself you'd think there was some serious familiarity in her words, "Your big brother came to me crying about you so I was kind enough to help him."

"He's an idiot," Octavia giggles, rubbing her forehead forcefully and then spoken like a true ' _my brother double-majored in history and politics_ '-diplomat, "Thanks for helping me get three. I would've gotten them anyway, but I appreciate the effort."

The brown-haired barely 4'7 speaks _very_ slowly as she informs him, "Bellamy, I'll be right over there, okay?" He huffs humorously, shaking his head as she skips off back to the shelves, most likely to pick which ones she wants to keep.

"You're lucky we found her on time. I would've taken her home with me if she was left unclaimed," Clarke jokes, fixing a fallen over FINTORP (bucket, in case you had to look twice, too) with small neon-colored windmills.

"Yeah, she's a piece of work," he says a little awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. It's not really appropriate to start hitting on the Hot IKEA Employee after she just helped you find your baby sister and you dumped your sob story onto her, is it? "Thanks for your help, and everything."

"No problem, you two seem very close, Bellamy," she says absentmindedly, flushing a little for adding a little too enthusiastically, "It's adorable." The way she says his name kind of makes his hands clammy.

"I just worry—that I'm not…" he shakes his head to himself, she's just an employee doing her job, why should he try and turn it into something else, "I just worry."

She smiles and he's reminded again why it's so pretty, on top of his Nicest Smiles Ever list, kicking Monty down to two. "I think you're doing a pretty great job. Some parents have dinner and get to their car before they realize their child is still playing in the ballpit," she bites down on her lip before carefully adding, "You make her feel so safe that she doesn't think twice about falling asleep in public places, that's kinda cool."

It's a relatively normal thing to say, but it implies something that makes him feel proud and warm and a little happy.

"Thanks," he says lamely. "I was about to accept I was going to die here looking for her but you're really good at that stuff." He swallows, not being able to look away from her, "Making people feel like it's going to be okay."

"It's one of my many talents. Another one is that I can get you a discount on our meatballs."

"Would you consider marrying me?" He deadpans, playfully. Somehow with her, it's kind of easy not to feel awkward.

She knocks her shoulder against his, laughing loudly and bright and it reminds him of sunshine, "I would if it wasn't so abundantly clear you only wanted me because of my meatball privileges, and not my personality."

"I'll settle for dinner, then." Smooth.

She cocks an eyebrow, smirk playing on her lips, "Only if you bring a really cute eleven year old who can totally kick your ass." There's a glint in her eyes that tell him that she wouldn't mind actually seeing it happen.

"I possibly know one, I'll check to see if she's available."

She clears her throat, hiding a grin as she brushes some imaginary dust of her IKEA polo, "In the meantime, is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Well, I  _might_  need some help finding the cafeteria."

.

 

**Author's Note:**

> pls leave a comment if you can i want to know how stupid this was and how many of you want to fight me because of it<3<3 bye


End file.
